


Totem

by kelseydivesin



Category: Inception (2010), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Inception, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dreams, Friendship, Gen, Lucid Dreaming, Mindfuck, Mystery, No Inception Characters Used, Non-Graphic Violence, Sherlock Characters in Inception World, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelseydivesin/pseuds/kelseydivesin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where dream-sharing and manipulation of those dreams is real, John Watson, army doctor deployed in Afghanistan for his second tour, stumbles into a team of dream extractors, led by the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes, and falls head-first into their mission to discover what is behind the mysterious name running through their operations: Moriarty...</p><p>Sherlock!AU where the characters are placed in the universe of Inception, the 2010 film by Christopher Nolan. Every effort has been made to make this story accessible to those who haven't seen the film - it is structured as a science fiction alternate universe of Sherlock. Only the universe and concept is borrowed; no Inception character crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colonel Baine

"Your services in this time of need will be greatly appreciated." The Colonel smiled with the same strength as a cellophane window, extending his hand across the desk for the Captain to shake.  
  
With a tight returned smile, John Watson met Colonel Baine's hand halfway, shaking firmly. "I'll always do what's needed in order to serve my country."  
  
"An admirable quality, Captain," Baine assured, his smile strengthening marginally. "Most men in your position wouldn't even think about a second tour of duty. Do I detect a hunger for a promotion? Major John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fussiliers." Settling in his plush office chair, as if savoring it while he still could, Baine's eyes wrinkled. "Has quite the ring to it."  
  
John did little more than shrug. "Perhaps." He certainly wouldn't mind the increase in pay grade.  
  
Legs crossing at the ankle, Baine sighed with his hands folded and resting low on his gut. "Still, Watson," he went on, as if he'd never stopped, "you will do good to keep yourself from getting shot at out there. A man with your talents could do better than a bunker in the middle of the desert."  
  
With the same tight smile, John thought to himself that the idea of wasting away in some private practice in Bristol would be enough to make him die of boredom. "Doesn't get much more exciting, though, does it?"  
  
-  
  
"Are we sure about this?"  
  
"Certainly," came the simple retort from behind the scientific journal, mop of dark curly hair just visible to the agitated ex-cop.  
  
"Well, maybe you're sure about it," corrected the former. "An army base? In Afghanistan? Surely we could wait until he's on leave. Much easier to infiltrate." The hum of the airborne private jet established a chord of uneasiness to their conversation.  
  
With an absent wave, the mop of hair behind the journal gestured at the mouse-like young woman seated next to him.  
  
Clearing her throat, 'mouse-woman' clarified. "We've got an in with two of the Lieutenants in the area, and a guarantee of an inconspicuous transport" she assured. "It's as close as we're going to get with the time we have."  
  
Brow furrowed, the grey-haired man shook his head. "It's risky. We're bound to get found out. These army chaps aren't exactly lacking in security."  
  
"Leave it to me," drawled the bored-sounding young man, still buried in his journal. "Colonel Baines is a high priority case."  
  
"You mean high paying," scoffed the older gentleman.  
  
Bringing the journal down to rest in his lap so he could look at the man across the aisle from him with heavy disdain, the young man's eyes shone with brilliant light that didn't match his grimacing lips. "This reeks of something bigger. We're not dealing with chump change, no, no! This is going to be big." With a smirk, he raised his journal back up, deeming the conversation closed.  
  
Giving up, the older man leaned back in his seat, slipping on his noise-cancelling headphones and attempting to will away the rest of the insanely long flight with the dulcet tones of The Smiths.  
  
-  
  
John Watson never dreamt when he slept; not anymore. He'd seen too many things for his brain to convert into images for while he was sleeping, and John believed he was better off because of it. The horrors, the flashes of inconceivable phenomena, and the trauma were all much easier to ignore if he didn't have to revisit them when he closed his eyes. Avoiding the whole mess of sleep and dreaming entirely, John had taken up insomnia most evenings. He pressed forward with a strange vividness through his days despite the lack of rest, confusing his friends and his superiors with his focus paired with heavy bags under his eyes. But even when he did succumb and sleep overcame him, he was never visited by dreams.  
  
Tonight was one of the nights when John decided sleep was superfluous, instead fancying a walk around the base. The desert aroma of dryness and sand (which, believe it or not, has a very distinct smell) swirled around him as he paced, his standard issue uniform snug on his shoulders but appropriately fitted everywhere else. It was just past one in the morning, and nearly all of the lights throughout the camp were extinguished, signs that John was truly in the minority with his sleepless behaviors.  
  
He could be back in London starting up his own practice if he wanted to. He had the experience, the certification, and the skills. And instead he was out here in the desert, patching up soldiers and dodging bullets. Something was definitely wrong with him.  
  
Boots scuffing up the dirt path, John's eyes scanned the base before noticing something odd: a shiny-new Jeep parked out in front of the Colonel's quarters that definitely did not look like it was army issued at all, and a strange thing to see in the arid Afghanistan climate. John paused mid-pace, looking around him for any signs of visitors and finding himself alone. None of the lights were on inside the bunker, causing John's alertness to spike. This was not adding up.  
  
Part of him wondered if he should alert somebody, seek out help. But of course, instead, John found himself approaching the Colonel's quarters without too much deliberation. Yep, definitely something wrong with him.  
  
Proceeding with caution, John inched his way towards mysteriously darkened building. The Colonel often has visitors from those higher up in command, but to date none had found it necessary to call at such a ridiculous hour of the night. And few of his guests deemed it necessary to confer in complete darkness.  
  
John saw before he had made it to the door that the door was ajar, but just before he could push it open to peer inside, his heart leaped up to his throat when he heard voices.  
  
"If you're so concerned, perhaps you should keep watch," snapped a velvet-low baritone voice.  
  
"No, no," came another voice, sounding defeated but clearly not the one in charge. "Molly will manage. Won't you?'  
  
There was a pause before a woman's voice responded, clearly the aforementioned Molly, just above a whisper. "Yeah, sure, I can manage."  
  
"Then let's stop wasting time," growled the lower man's voice.  
  
Hand migrating carefully to rest on the handle of his gun, secure in its holster, John crouched down and moved over to the window, ducked below the line of sight and chancing a quick peek in.  
  
The sight was definitely one he had never happened upon before, which is one for the books, to be sure.  
  
Three people were congregated around the cot with the Colonel fast asleep on it, the two men arranging themselves to either sit or lay down around him, and the woman holding what looked like an ornate metallic briefcase. John ducked out of sight again for a split second before chancing another look, lingering this time. The woman with the briefcase had opened it up and placed it on the ground, extracting what looked like plastic tubes used to administer IV medication from inside the briefcase. The inside of the briefcase was not simply an empty carrying case, but looked like a fully operational machine of some variety with LED display and curious looking gears and compartments exposed.  
  
The two men, one excessively tall and lanky with dark curly hair and the other slightly shorter with grey hair and wrinkled skin, each accepted one of the leads offered by the woman dealing with the briefcase-machine and injected the leads into their veins at the inner elbow. John's brow furrowed as the woman, Molly, took the third lead and delicately exposed the underside of Colonel Baine's arm and injected the lead. The colonel winced but did not stir. They must have already sedated him with something, John reasoned.  
  
Nothing about the operation unfolding before him put John at ease in the slightest, and he ducked out of sight once again, lest any of the three people inside see him spying. He'd noticed both men had guns at their hips, less than assuring.  
  
"Get on with it," came the impatient baritone voice that seemed to be in charge; John guessed that it belonged to the man with the curly dark hair, but without seeing couldn't be sure. After a short silence, John heart a curious hissing noise begin just inside, and after forcing himself to count to ten he chanced another glance inside. Both of the men were now passed out, the grey-haired man leaning back against the side of the cot, and the dark-haired man lying flat on the floor slightly further from Baine. The woman was seated next to the machine in the middle of the mess, awake and looking around twitchy-like.  
  
Before John had a chance to duck back down, the woman's gaze - Molly, he reminded himself uselessly - landed right on John at the window. John crouched out of sight a moment too late, cursing himself silently.  
  
"Who's there," she called out, voice shaking. Unused to covert operation, then, John reasoned. He could easily incapacitate her. But he had no idea what in the world that machine was, or what it was doing... Were they drugging the colonel for some reason? What sort of drugging was done en masse with the participation of the druggers?  
  
Drawing his weapon, John stood and spun towards the ajar door in a fluid motion, nudging the door open with his boot and training his sight on the woman. "Hands in the air," he muttered, shouting unnecessary in such close quarters.  
  
Molly's eyes widened in shock, hands shooting up and standing as quick as a flash. "Don't shoot." Her voice was quiet and awkwardly high-pitched, the terror swallowing her eyes as her pupils dilated.  
  
John remained steady, his eyes locked on the woman at the end of his gun's sight. "What are you doing to the Colonel," he shot out, eyes darting to the strange briefcase open on the floor in front of Molly.  
  
"N-Nothing," the woman stammered, unsure of herself.  
  
The steady captain simply narrowed his eyes at her.  
  
Shaking her head to dissuade any ideas John might have about shooting first and asking questions later, Molly went on. "Okay, well, not nothing... but we're not hurting him," she insisted. "I'll tell you what's going on, just... please don't point that gun at me?" Her eyes were pleading, limbs shaking, not a malicious bone in her body from the looks of it. She was positively terrified.  
  
Perhaps she was telling the truth, but John was still reticent to follow blindly. Still... He lowered his gun, the hand holding it hanging at his side rather than holstering it. He wasn't completely sold. "Start talking."  
  
Clearly Molly was not the type that would endure well under interrogation scenarios. As soon as she had lowered her hands, she spilled. "W-We suspect Colonel Baine is involved in... less than legal activities. We've been hired by an outside contractor to investigate."  
  
"Investigate?" John's brow furrowed in confusion and curiosity. "What does that have to do with... with that thing and... and those?" He gestured in turn to the strange briefcase and the leads extending from it.  
  
"Dream manipulation," she blurted out without hesitation. "We're... basically looking for the answers in his head."  
  
He must have heard that wrong. "...Excuse me, what?!"  
  
As if it helped any, Molly just repeated herself. "Dream manipulation."  
  
"Yeah, you said that already, and... that doesn't really make any sense." John eyes stayed locked on the mousy-looking woman. She was yanking his leg, surely.  
  
Molly pressed on, kneeling down on the floor beside the briefcase. "This is a Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous Device. A PASIV." She pointed out the five-letter abbreviation engraved in the stainless steel on the inside corner of the briefcase. The strange machine was still hissing oddly, high-pitched and incessant, definitely different from the hum a standard IV gave off. "It delivers Somnacin to the dreamers, which enables dream sharing." She cleared her throat, taking a deep breath after talking so quickly. "It's all... quite difficult to explain -"  
  
"Wake them up," John snapped. Whatever Molly was going on about this dream sharing, John wasn't having any of it. Dream sharing? Mind control, more like it. "Right now," he added to make his point.  
  
With an almost apologetic frown, Molly shook her head. "I can't. The Somnacin... if I interrupt it in the middle of a shared dream experience, it'll-"  
  
"I don't really care. Wake them up." John raised his gun to point it at Molly again, eliciting something like a squeak from the mousey woman whose arms shot up in a flash as she stood again.  
  
"No, no, I can't! I... I can go in and tell them to wake up or something, but... but I can't just shut it off!" Molly's eyes were wide and pleading, and John, despite himself, was inclined to believe her.  
  
Rather than lower his gun this time, John thought for a moment, keeping this quiet, jumpy woman in his aim. "...Go in, like... hook yourself up and fall asleep and... dream with them?"  
  
Molly visibly swallowed a lump in her throat before nodding.  
  
"Not a chance," he asserted. Like hell he was allowing this conspirator to dope up on some dreaming drug while he sat around while the Colonel's thoughts were fresh for the picking. There was something deeply wrong about all of this...  
  
"What do you want me to do, then?!" Molly's hands were still above her head, her voice hissing at what she probably perceived as the unfairness of this situation.  
  
Pursing his lips and licking them for half a moment, John reluctantly lowered his gun a foot or two so it was no longer pointing at Molly. "Tell me what the hell is going on. This dream sharing... They're... in his head, right now?" He gestured blankly with his right hand at the two men comatose beside the Colonel, keeping a firm grip on his gun with his left hand, pointing it at the ground.  
  
Taking in a deep, steadying breath, hesitantly lowering her hands, Molly's eyes remained fixed on John, twitching back and forth between the gun and his eyes. "...Basically, yes. The subject, er, the Colonel, is dreaming right now, but what we do is provide a kind of, um, mold for the dream to happen inside, and the subject sort of fills it up with his thoughts and ideas and memories. It can be temperamental-"  
  
"Great, okay," John sighed, shaking his head, eyes still narrow and confused, since most everything coming out of Molly's mouth sounded like scientific gibberish. Or baking instructions. "Care to tell me why the hell you chose Colonel Baine for your lab rat?"  
  
Molly winced slightly at John's dismissal of her explanation, but her gaze never left John. "You could let me finish what I'm saying, for one thing," she shot back with an unexpected (on John's behalf) surge of irritation.  
  
John took a deep breath and holstered his gun to placate the smallish woman. He held up his empty palms in a sign of temporary truce.  
  
Molly cleared her throat and continued, voice much more level now that the gun was put away. "Colonel Baine is suspected of espionage."  
  
Understandably shocked by Molly's accusation, John's eyes widened in disbelief. "Excuse me?!"  
  
"He's suspected of disclosing sensitive information to militant groups in the area," she elaborated, expression appropriately shame-faced for John's benefit. "But there is no conclusive proof. So... that's where we come in."  
  
Shaking his head, John found himself slow to jump on board with this 'Colonel-Baine-is-a-traitor' bandwagon Molly was driving. "I don't believe you," he muttered. Not Colonel Baine. He was the man that had convinced John to serve his second tour of duty, an upstanding member of the regiment, to say the least. Firm in his direction, but never overbearing or autocratic. Why on Earth would he do anything like that?  
  
"I'm sorry," she muttered, shaking her head. "But all signs point to the Colonel selling government secrets."  
  
"And how the hell do some... dream-weavers get proof of something like that," John demanded, hardly aware that his fists were clenched.  
  
Clearly the woman before him wasn't exactly enjoying telling John about the dark secrets his commanding officer lived with, but she pressed on. "We've constructed a replication of the meeting place we think the Colonel usually uses to meet with the enemy informants. All it takes is watching what he does and catching him in the act, so to speak."  
  
John's brow furrowed, lips tightening in a straight line. "That's... this is..." This was so wrong, so invasive of privacy - God, not just privacy, one's own thoughts! - that John's stomach was twisted in knots thinking about it. "You're going to read a man's thoughts to convict him of espionage?!"  
  
"No," Molly clarified, and for whatever reason she seemed unable to hold back a small smile. "Just his dreams."  
  
Moral conscience snapping against him like a rubber band, John's gun was back out of it's holster immediately, pointed once again at Molly. "I'm only going to say this once. Wake. Them up. Now. I've had enough of this."  
  
The exasperated but desperate groan Molly let out as she raised her hands once more caused her whole chest to concave with its force, shoulders hunching in despair. "PLEASE don't point that at me! I've told you! I can't!"  
  
"Wake. Them. Up."  
  
The moment drew itself a moment longer than reality allowed for, frozen in John's consciousness, oblivious of everything except for the trembling woman before him. Would he actually pull the trigger on her? Was she actually any threat? Was she telling the truth about the Colonel?  
  
A sudden low baritone voice cut through John's thoughts. "You'll want to put that down, Captain."  
  
In John's momentary reverie, he hadn't noticed that the continual hissing from the PASIV had ended. In addition, he had failed to register a tall, lanky figure stand smoothly and point a gun directly at John's head. His gaze turned to him now, taking in the completely awake and frightfully still man who had a hand gun aimed squarely at John's temple. Aside from the long, draping coat and the dark mop of curls on top of his head, John didn't have much of a chance to take in much more about this man before the attacker clicked off the safety on his pistol.  
  
"In your own time. But quite quickly."  
  
Knowing full well he was out of other options, John slowly raised his free hand up in surrender, slowly crouching down with his gaze fixed on the tall man as he lowered the gun down to the floor, setting it down carefully.  
  
"Wise choice," drawled the black-haired man, his voice identified by John as the one belonging to the man John had guessed was in charge of their team. Satisfied now that the army captain was unarmed, he clicked back on the safety, holstered his gun, and turned his attention to the plastic lead still in his arm, removing the tube and pressing a fingertip to the pinprick in the same instant. Molly took the lead without a word, coiling it up as her gaze lingered on the man's long-fingered hand.  
  
"Who the hell is this," came a voice from the floor, and John's gaze snapped over to the third member of this strange team, grey-haired and removing his own lead as he spoke, looking up at John quizzically.  
  
"Doesn't matter," snapped out the man in charge, going over to the Colonel and busying himself with the lead attached to the commanding officer's arm, removing it expertly and quickly. "We need to move quickly."  
  
"Hold up," John got in just barely as Molly began gathering up the three leads and packing them away inside the briefcase-thing - she had called it the PASIV, John remembered. "Are you... you're just leaving?!"  
  
Quirking up an eyebrow at John, the tall man seemed to be confused for half a moment that John was still there. "He'll be waking up. If you're smart, which I doubt, you'll be leaving as well. Lestrade," he snapped at the grey-haired man who was now standing and still had his gaze fixed on John in confusion. "We don't have time."  
  
John looked over at Molly incredulously, who simply shrugged helplessly at him as she closed up the PASIV, picking it up. "No, hold on!"  
  
His insistence caused at least Molly and the man called Lestrade to look up at John and pause what they were doing, but the third simply pursed his lips. "Get out of our way, or I'll make you move," he threatened, hand moving again towards his gun.  
  
But he wasn't letting them leave without the answer he wanted. "Did he do it, then? That was the whole point, wasn't it? Has he been selling secrets?"  
  
There was a moment of confusion while Molly winced and the man in charge turned to look at her with irritation. "I told you to keep watch, not to chat up anyone with a uniform that showed up," he muttered, and John was insulted that this brooding fellow had the nerve to act like John wasn't even there anymore.  
  
"I wasn't chatting him up, I was keeping him from trying to wake you up too soon," she insisted, indignant.  
  
"We need to get out of here," Lestrade muttered.  
  
"Has Colonel Baine been selling secrets?!" John insisted, his shoulders square and gaze fixed on the man in control of what was going on, the only one whose name he hadn't quite caught. Great, an enigma of a man, just what John needed right now.  
  
Apparently the enigma wasn't feeling too chatty at the moment, brow furrowed with impatience. "This is ridiculous. We need to leave before-"  
  
"Hands in the air! All of you!"  
  
Their conflict had been summarily interrupted by a now quite-awake Colonel who had taken hold of the gun at his bedside table and was now pointing it in turn at the three intruders, sitting up in bed. He had heavy bags under his eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping just now, nerves appropriately jumpy as he took stock of the strangers.  
  
Everyone obediently did as the colonel asked, everyone's hands above their heads. John caught Lestrade exchanging furtive looks with each other that John couldn't decipher, his own hands also raised just to be safe.  
  
"Watson," Baine snapped, standing up properly and eyes narrow. "The devil are you doing here?" The colonel had his gun trained on Molly but his gaze was fixed on John.  
  
Lowering his hands carefully, he cleared his throat. "I heard commotion in here and came to investigate," he explained levelly.  
  
Taking in a shaky deep breath, his aim shaky and oddly uneven for a marksman like Baine, the colonel turned his gaze once more to each of the three strangers. "You... You were... I saw you in..." His expression was slowly changing from one of suspicion to shock and close to terror. "What the blazes is going on here?!"  
  
"We should be asking the same thing," Lestrade interjected coolly, hands still raised. "How long have you been selling secrets to al Quada operatives?"  
  
The dawning of realization on the colonel's face was all the answer John needed. The slow decay of his doubt and confusion began combusting in his brain, jumping into overdrive, shaking his head. "Colonel... you didn't...?"  
  
"Shut your face," snapped Baine at the hesitant captain, actually turning his gun to him as causing John's hands to jump back above his head. "You have no right to judge me, Watson," he spat out, as if the captain's very name disgusted him.  
  
"What I'm curious about," broke in the low baritone voice of the strange team's leader, "is how carefully organized it all seems. This smells of something much bigger than one Colonel selling secrets to the first buyer." Boldly, the tall man had lowered his hands, folding them behind his back as his eyes danced all over the figure of the shaky colonel. "You've had some help," he concluded.  
  
Baine's gaze snapped to the man as he spoke, visibly swallowing a lump down his throat. His usual calm composure was clearly gone now that his secret was out, and he seemed an entirely different man to John. "Yeah, I did," he muttered, gun still trained on John.  
  
"Who from," John broke in, prompting the stranger to glance over at John quizzically as John took control, his own hands lowering. "Who the hell would play match-maker with militant terrorists and a snake-in-the-grass like you?" The venom in his voice was heavy and strong, even taking a step forward towards the colonel.  
  
And even after that display, Baine had the goddamn nerve to smirk at John. "Feeling betrayed, Watson? The man you thought was a king isn't everything you thought he was?" The colonel's gun remained trained on John, but it was still shaky with the man's nerves despite his moment of bravura, his voice growing more angry as he went on. "How does it feel, learning everything you value is actually a piece of shit dressed up in 'queen and country'?"  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, John saw Molly practically hiccup from her nerves; clearly today hadn't been a good day for her.  
  
"Who's been helping you, Baine," snapped the impatient leader, gaze drifting momentarily over to Lestrade and tilting his head in Baine's direction fractionally, almost so quick John missed it.  
  
"Like I'd tell you," Baine hissed, glaring at the tall stranger and turning the gun's aim towards him. "You'd have to kill me first, and then you'd have a right job of getting me to tell then, hm?"  
  
The cool smirk that answered Baine's taunt was bone-chilling. "You have no idea."  
  
Before the colonel could react, Lestrade took his own pistol out of his holster and, being closest to Baine, needed only to dart forward a step before he summarily whacked the colonel upside the back of the head with the butt of his gun. The colonel barely had a chance to cry out in surprise before his gaze rolled back into his head and he crumpled to the floor. Molly squeaked and jumped back a step to prevent being fallen on.  
  
"That should handle it," Lestrade muttered, holstering his gun and tossing a little grin in the stranger's direction.  
  
"Wait a minute," John protested, looking between Lestrade and the other man in disbelief. "How do you expect to find out how he's been getting help if he's knocked out?!"  
  
"We don't need to," asserted the tall stranger as he took a moment to straighten his coat. "We already got a name. I was stalling for time until he was appropriately distracted so Lestrade could incapacitate him. An interrogation was the perfect solution." He glanced up at John for a moment, tossing him a proud smirk.  
  
John's mouth gaped open for half a moment before he caught himself and snapped his mouth shut. "That's brilliant."  
  
For the split second that their gazes connected, John caught a look of disbelief in the strange blue-grey-ish eyes before the expression turned to one of trained emptiness. "Was it?"  
  
"Yes, of course it was," John insisted, looking back at the knocked out colonel in amazement. His heart was still pounding from the excitement of this scuffle, and he couldn't help but smile. "Really amazing."  
  
John seemed to have somehow tapped into the one thing that could cause this tall stranger to be stricken speechless, simply turning away from John and slipping his hands into his pocket, looking down at the crumpled colonel.  
  
"We haven't the foggiest what it means, though," Lestrade noted, as if to keep the conversation going despite it's derailment. "The name - I've never heard of him before."  
  
"Moriarty," muttered the dark-haired man, who was now stooping down over the colonel, picking up his wrist gingerly as he inspected his... fingernails? John watched with curiosity as the curious man picked away at the man, eyes moving quickly and faster than any average man could register information with.  
  
"Moriarty?" Molly questioned, seeming now to be in control of her nerves enough by now to speak again, looking to Lestrade with tight features.  
  
Nodding, Lestrade watched the man who was now pulling something out of the colonel's pocket, examining it. "Yes. I've never heard it before..."  
  
Without any sign that he was nearly finished, the stranger stood abruptly, stowing away the piece of paper he'd extracted. "I've got everything I need," he announced, turning his gaze to Lestrade. "We should get moving. No doubt the good doctor here isn't the only insomniac in this base."  
  
Starting, John's eyes widened. "I never said I was a doctor."  
  
"You didn't have to. It's obvious if one spends longer than five seconds looking at you." Tightening his lips, he looked John over once more before adding, "Perhaps less. Three seconds would be more than ample."  
  
"How-?!"  
  
"It's irrelevant and not at all pertinent at the moment," asserted the strange, strange man that somehow was able to not only enter people's dreams but read their minds while they were awake. "What's important now is whether you are coming with us."  
  
"Wait, what?!" Lestrade butted in with wide eyes, taking a step forward as Molly's jaw dropped in the background. "We can't bring him with us - I don't have anything prepared. No identification, no money, nothing!"  
  
"You want me to come with you?" Rather than reacting as boldly as Lestrade had, John's gaze didn't leave the stranger, eyebrow quirked. "Me?" Strangely enough, his surprise didn't stem from his implication of going AWOL and engaging in doubtless illegal and morally dubious activities, but more than it was directed at him. Why would somebody like John merit coming along on something like this?  
  
"Your skill set as both a soldier and a doctor would be invaluable, and you've demonstrated a rock solid nerve. I also suspect your opinion towards the army in general is waning after your experience with Colonel Baine just now."  
  
A strange lump was forming in John's throat as he stared at the tall, enigmatic fellow that was essentially inviting him away on a grand adventure the likes of which John couldn't begin to fathom. "I don't even know your name," he countered uselessly.  
  
The small smile that bordered on the level of a smirk tossed his direction charmed John despite himself. "Sherlock Holmes," he announced grandly, the strange name fitting him to a tee.  
  
Smiling bemusedly, John shook his head. "And why should I come with you lot? Dream sharing... this can't be legal."  
  
Sherlock's eyes shone with promise, and the lump in John's throat settled somewhere in his chest, swelling and filling him with warmth. "Incredibly dangerous. And the man standing before me entered his superior officer's quarters when he hadn't the faintest what lay inside, gun brandished and blood pumping. You'll be coming along, naturally."


	2. Training

"So essentially," John found himself repeating back slowly to Sherlock as they walked together, "the person who is controlling everything - the Dreamer - creates the... outline of the dream, and the Subject, or the target, I guess, fills it with their subconscious. The people, the information, the ideas... sort of filling in the gaps. Connecting the dots." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the analogy. "It's more dissimilar to a coloring book than you are implying, John," Sherlock noted. 

"Right," John muttered, lips tightening into a line and gaze drifting down and away from Sherlock. The London pavement beneath his boots was so real - it had been so bloody long since he'd seen London - and John could hardly believe it was actually a dream. 

After a pause, Sherlock conceded. "Though you have the right idea. In this... 'dream-London' we are in right now, your mind created the 'map' - subconsciously, as you haven't any practice controlling the process. My mind, as the Subject, provides the details." He gestured to a passerby, who looked at Sherlock a moment longer than necessary before pressing on. "A projection of my subconscious." 

"So... are they actually bits of your mind? Or my mind?" John's eyes narrowed, noticing a few of the passerby seemed to be taking far too much stock in them. He narrowly avoided one woman who nearly collided straight into him, flinching and cursing in annoyance. 

Sherlock said nothing about the close call with the pedestrian, instead focusing on John's question. "In any shared dreaming experience, the Dreamer's subconscious will 'bleed over' into the dream, though ideally you, as the Dreamer, should create just enough structure for it to be recognizable to the Subject and no more. The maze helps." 

"Why the maze, by the way," John noted, his pace coming to a slow halt as he realized that every single person that passed them by was glaring menacingly at the pair of them. 

Coming to a stop beside John, Sherlock grimaced. "The maze is just one way to make sure the Dreamer doesn't get caught out as not belonging in the Subject's subconscious," he muttered slowly, only loud enough for John to hear, gaze flicking over the strangers surrounding them, the infinite calculations visible in his clear eyes. 

Rather than looking at Sherlock anymore, John took stock of the sheer number of average people that had stopped to stare angrily at Sherlock and John. "...How so?" 

"It allows the Dreamer to evade the subconsciousness's attacks on them," Sherlock explained, distracted. "Mazes provide hiding places, shortcuts." 

"You mentioned... that I'm the Dreamer right now, right?" More than one of these deathly glares seemed to have a very real threat behind them. "I'm the one that doesn't belong." 

"Well, to be fair, my subconscious is not too happy that I'm with you," Sherlock chuckled, out of place for the circumstances. 

John's eyes narrowed. "But they won't hurt you. It's... well, it's technically your dream. I'm the visitor. I'm the one... messing with your dream, per se." Sherlock chuckling at the menacing 'projections', as Sherlock had called them, was less than appreciated when he thought he could see one reaching into his inner jacket pocket for what looked suspiciously like a knife. 

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock's gaze had turned to the other man, and his voice softened and lost a bit of its humor as he went on. "They can't hurt you, John. This isn't real." 

"Tell them that," John countered sharply, backing away from the man in question with what was definitely a knife. 

"It will be fine." 

Sherlock's voice was so deceptively calm, John couldn't resist turning to look at him impatiently. The serene grey-blue-green of his eyes calmed John for half a moment, and he nodded. "Yeah, alright." 

The next thing John knew, there was a blinding white hot sharpness in his side. He cried out, wrenching himself free of the grasp of the attacker, gaze snapping up to Sherlock in his pain and seeing pure shock in Sherlock's eyes. 

\- 

"Jesus... fuck!" 

"Oh, Good Lord," breathed the shocked Molly beside John. Once he turned to look at her, she looked like she'd nearly jumped out of her skin at John's exclamation upon waking. 

Waking up had never been so much a visceral experience before. He'd broken out into a spontaneous cold sweat, and he swore he could still feel his side throbbing from where he'd been stabbed in his subconscious. Or rather, by Sherlock's subconscious. How the hell did that even work?! 

Bringing his hands up to his face while sitting up, John rubbed away the sleep, unaware that he was shivering slightly in the aftermath of the dream. It had been surreal, almost terrifying, even, once he realized just how completely his thoughts could fake reality inside his own mind. Inside Sherlock's mind. Both of their minds? Good God, this was going to get confusing. 

The AWL army doctor retreated into his own skin, shaken by the distinct knowledge that his very psyche, his _dreams_ , had been shared with another person. A man he hardly knew and yet felt like he had stood beside for years, having shared a space so personal and unique. How strange... and yet, currently, quite an unwelcome feeling. It was invasive, violating, as if he'd scrubbed his hands raw under scalding hot water. 

Pulled out of his haze, he jerked slightly when he felt something soft hang over his shoulders. Letting his hands drop and his eyes flutter open, he pushed through blurry eye sight and identified the soft something as a blanket, and the blanket-giver a quiet Molly, smiling weakly at him. 

"Th-thanks," John muttered, hating his own voice for trembling. Honestly, the things he'd seen, you wouldn't think he'd be so shaken up over something so... non-life-threatening. After all, it was all in his head. 

The center of operations that this strange team had chosen was a small flat, nestled away in the East End of London where, for the most part, they could avoid attention when wanted. It was bare of any decorations (in case they needed to leave suddenly, which apparently wasn't uncommon), and quite cramped, to be sure, with four people living under its roof; John had been sleeping on the couch since he arrived, three days ago. Lestrade (whom John had learned held the first name of Greg) had mockingly called it a rat hole, and unwittingly the name had stuck for John in his mind: the Rat Hole. 

In his first foray into dream manipulation, John had gone under while lying on the couch, the PASIV lying on the floor next to him. Molly was sitting in a small-ish metal folding chair that had been positioned next to the odd machine, so that she could monitor the Somnacin. Sherlock had opted for the floor - and just now, John thought to glance over to where Sherlock had fallen asleep when they went under, instead seeing the man putting away the PASIV, not looking at John. 

"It's always strange the first time." John's eyes snapped back to Molly at her words, blinking a few times and finding he was having a hard time focusing on her. "You'll probably want some water; the Somnacin can really dehydrate you." Molly's voice was so even, so controlled. Even though at first glance she might have seemed weak, John understood there was so much more to that quiet strength behind her every movement. 

"Yeah, my eyes are all dried out," John agreed, rubbing his eyes a bit more as he swung his legs off of the sofa to rest his feet on the ground, so he could sit properly instead of having his legs sticking out in front of him. Hands dropping to his lap again, he looked back up to Molly, only to see she had already stood and was going over to the nearby water cooler to get John a drink. 

With the moment he'd been afforded, he let his eyes go back to Sherlock, who by now had put away all of the PASIV's components and powered the machine down, standing so he could no doubt take the machine over to the desk where it was hidden in a special compartment beneath one of the drawers. However, the tall man paused for half a moment before taking even a single step, turning to face John, clearly having felt the man stare. Abashed, John turned his gaze away, trying to think nothing of it when a slightly longer silence passed before Sherlock continued on his way to put away the PASIV. 

A small paper cup was presented in front of his line of sight, and John's head perked up once again to see Molly, same quiet smile, offering John the drink. Accepting and drinking happily, the ice-cold liquid soothing thirst he hadn't realized was there, John let himself sigh openly once he'd drained the cup, muscles losing a fraction of their tension. 

Molly took her seat once more, resting one hand in her lap while she tucked a stray piece of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear. "So, how was it?" 

Looking up at Molly, John felt his spine go stiff. "It... It really isn't until you wake up that you realize how strange it all is," John admitted, glancing over in Sherlock's direction but noting that the tall genius seemed to be taking no notice of him, sitting in the old office chair next to the desk with his feet propped up on the front, hands folded in his lap and cap pulled down low to cover his eyes, undoubtedly closed in thought. Shaking his head, John turned back to Molly, noticing a pink tinge to her cheeks. Had she just been looking at Sherlock too? Strange, for two sets of eyes to meet when both looking at the same person. "I mean, if I wasn't careful, I could forget it wasn't real," John added, trying to break whatever strange tension had been formed. 

Opening her mouth to respond, cheeks still pink, Molly was interrupted with little warning. "That's sort of the idea," came the voice from behind John, and he turned to see Greg entering the sitting room from one of the two bedrooms. From the looks of his still slightly damp hair (what there was of it, that is) and the fresh clothes, he'd just showered. "I mean, we wouldn't get very many marks giving us reliable information if they knew it was all constructed." 

"Mark," John broke in as Greg took a seat in a nearby armchair, some old discarded thing that had probably been found in a rubbish skip. "That's... the target?" 

With a small smile, Lestrade leaned forward with elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on John. Greg had happily taken on breaking down the mechanics of dream manipulation for John over the past few days leading up to John's first experience with the PASIV today. "Yeah. So, if the Dreamer lays things up right, makes it easy for the Subject, our Mark, to feed in the thoughts into the dream that we want him to..." 

"...It's not a problem snatching those thoughts out," John finished, brow furrowed. He had to admit, this entire operation reeked of immoral standards. Gaining intelligence by invading a person at their most vulnerable times, their _dreams_... 

Sherlock had refused to lead any of John's 'dream training', out of principle that it was an 'innane waste of time', though seemed to have no problem chiming in at this point. "Most of the time," he intoned from the back of the small flat from underneath the cap covering his eyes. 

When John turned to Greg, he saw the older man simply glowering at Sherlock, not appreciating the peanut gallery's input. Turning to Molly, he watched as she glanced briefly at Greg before explaining quietly to John. "It doesn't always go well. Sometimes, people who are aware of dream manipulation can train their subconsciousness to...militarize against invaders, the same way we train out subconscious to control the creation in the dream and remain aware." 

"Militarize?" 

"The Miller case," Greg groaned reluctantly, as Sherlock excluded himself from the conversation once again, pulling the cap back over his eyes. Molly's gaze lingered on Sherlock, and John saw her nibble at her bottom lip surreptitiously before he directed his attention back to Lestrade. "Lane Miller was a financier who was suspected of laundering and forgery, and we were hired to determine if it was true. But... he knew we were coming, somehow. His subconscious was like an army base. We got ripped to shreds." 

John grimaced, glancing back to Molly who was still looking at Sherlock, confused by her gaze as he cleared his throat to catch her attention. "You alright?" 

The startled gasp John got from Molly was as if he'd just shouted at her, and he sat back in his seat, an assurance that he wasn't threatening her. Molly took a moment to cross her legs, eyes cast downward. "Yeah. Sorry, was just... thinking about that case," she muttered hurriedly. 

At Molly's words, strangely enough, Greg glanced back to where Sherlock was behind the desk, lips tight, holding something in. It only took a mildly pregnant pause for Sherlock to mutter something, ripping the cap from his head and smashing it on top of the desk, legs swinging as he stood up and swept towards the exit. John noticed both Greg and Molly pointedly avoid even glancing at Sherlock, but John watched without reservation as Sherlock took his coat and scarf from the coat tree next to the door, donning them with a flourish and giving the trio seated in the sitting room a disdainful look. "If you all insist on gossiping about me, I'm going to go for a walk somewhere I can actually _think_." 

Licking his lips, John glanced once more at Molly and Greg, noticing the latter rolling his eyes subtly, before glancing back at Sherlock, catching his gaze before the taller man could turn away. "Yeah, alright. Grab some milk or something?" Without even realizing it, his voice had gone soft and almost placating. 

John thought he saw Sherlock's mouth just barely twitch before he turned to sweep out of the room, door shutting swiftly behind him. 

The novice dream-manipulator wasted no time in turning back to Molly and Greg. "What was that about?" 

The sudden flash of venom John caught in Greg's eyes as he glanced at the door threw John off guard. "He's a twat," muttered the grey-haired gentleman. 

"It was a bad situation for everyone, Gregory," broke in Molly, voice taking on a higher strain that usual, hands picking nervously at her trousers. 

"He made us rush in too quickly. If he'd given me the chance to do my job and gather more information on Miller, we wouldn't have been caught with our trousers down when we went in." The older man took in a heavy breath through his nose in an attempt to calm himself (unsuccessfully, it seemed) before turning back to John. "So Sherlock runs things, of course. He's our Architect, and he is nearly always the Dreamer on jobs, the control freak. But I swear, for a masterful genius he can approach things with the mentality of a toddler." 

Chin sticking forward, John narrowed his eyes, processing what Greg was saying. Despite everything he'd been trying to absorb over the past few days about their strange operation, the mechanics, the roles... Sherlock Holmes had remained such an enigma. The man was fiercely intelligent and creative, and constantly playing that bloody violin. He wasn't quite sure, but John thought he might have seen Sherlock fiddling with a microscope observing what looked like blood, his freshly bandaged arm a disquieting sign. "But he is a genius," he reflected. 

"A genius with a death wish," Lestrade clarified for John. "He's obsessed with us only working on _interesting_ jobs. You should have seen his face when his brother told him to look into Colonel Baine, going into _Afghanistan_..." 

"His brother?" John hadn't meant to interrupt what sounded like a strange and intriguing story about the man John barely knew, but this bit of knowledge was too much for John to ignore. 

When Lestrade merely leaned back in the armchair he was seated in, Molly took it upon herself to answer John. "Mycroft. He says he has a 'minor position in the British government', but honestly... He has access to CCTV, health and crime records, passport photos..." Despite her eerie tale, Molly's eyes shone with a small amount of excitement, something John couldn't help but feel as well as she went on. "It's all very Big Brother." 

"How ironic of him." Lestrade took up a nearby newspaper and seemed to deem that this conversation had left any status it once held of him wanting to engage, hiding behind the Times. 

\- 

Later that evening, over greasy Chinese take-out which Sherlock refused (had John seen Sherlock eat at all since he arrived here?!), John found himself prodding Molly for more information, since Lestrade seemed to have gotten tired of playing teacher for a little while. Which John completely understood, mind you. He didn't enjoy being the novice that needed training, probably just as much as Lestrade might be tiring of being the 'expert'. 

Speaking between bites of lo mein, John made to steer the conversation towards the quiet woman seated across from him at the small table in the kitchen. "So, have you always done this sort of thing? Manipulating dreams with the PASIV and all?" 

Caught with food in her mouth, Molly took a moment to finish her bite before answering. "I was a pathologist, for a while. Sherlock would come to me for spare body parts to experiment on." 

John choked for half a second on his food, forcing himself to swallow before turning with wide eyes to Molly. "...Experiment on... how, exactly?" Human body parts weren't exactly common commodities; you couldn't very well pick some up at Tescos. 

The shrug John got from Molly didn't exactly make him feel any better. "Who knows? He still keeps a few experiments going, but he's gotten rather good at hiding them from the rest of us." Glancing up from her food, Molly gave John a weighty glance before elaborating. "Don't use the old coffee maker under the counter." 

The effort John spent in reigning in his imagination as best he could made the prospect of eating more Chinese food quite unappealing, setting down his fork decidedly. "So then, how did that lead to... all this?" 

"His brother," Molly went on, having no problem with taking a few more bites of food between her words. "Sherlock fancied himself a criminal investigator, and he happened upon the technology during a case he took a liking too. Well, Mycroft eventually was dealing with three or four calls a day, asking about the PASIV and Somnacin and its availability. I guess it was at one time being developed for use in the British Army; creating realistic training scenarios and whatnot." 

"And, what, Sherlock figured his brother in the government would just... hand over a PASIV?" 

The only real answer John got was a light shrug, and John pondered for half a moment before he determined that, yes, if Sherlock was persistent enough he probably would get the PASIV. 

"So, why you and Greg?" 

"Well, Gregory has police experience - he was a detective inspector for eight years before he..." Her voice trailed off, and John had a sinking suspicion that probing for more information on this particular subject was not the best idea, nor any of his business. "Sherlock used to use him for finding cases, and when he started messing with the PASIV, Gregory was the first person Sherlock went to. He's good with research, logistics... Sherlock thinks it's all dead boring, having to _plan __things out."_

John could only imagine; the frantic Sherlock Holmes, presenting his findings to Lestrade and using the strange magnetism the man possessed to charm Greg into assisting him. "What about you?" 

"He needed my laboratory," Molly admitted without hesitation. "Somnacin isn't really distributed at the chemists." The attempt at humor pulled a small grin from Molly. "There aren't exactly a lot of people that do this, but I sort of serve as a personal Chemist for the team. I'm awful actually in the dream scape, though." The woman distractedly tucked another strand of hair behind her ear, her ponytail loose and unkept from the day's activites thus far. "I panic. It almost always collapses on me." 

"Collapse...?" 

"Exactly like it sounds." She indulged John with a glance despite her withdrawn body language and the almost shaky quality to her gaze. "Like an earthquake, or a bomb going off. Everything just...fell apart. I was supposed to construct a warehouse, but once I went under I forgot it was a dream, and once I remembered..." With a light shiver, Molly averted her gaze once more. 

Considering John's novice status with dream manipulation, he didn't exactly find this conversation comforting. Enlightening, of course, but it did very little to quiet his discomfort that he'd been wrestling with ever since he'd woken up this afternoon. 

\- 

Sleep evaded John once again; he honestly couldn't even fathom falling asleep and entering a 'natural' dream right now, not when he was still fighting cold shivers and a strange, foreign feeling that creeped up and down his skin. Instead, he found himself sitting on the couch, pillow and blanket remaining folded and unused on the end. Slumped back into the cushions, he tried to calm his mind, practicing every trick in the book to try and relax. Reciting the phonetic alphabet over and over in his mind was the current course of action, his fingers drumming out the syllables on his thighs as he tried to work himself into a soporific trance. 

John assumed that everyone else was fast asleep; Gregory and Sherlock shared the one bedroom, and Molly the second (modesty seemed to still be intact, even in this strange team). His gaze, unfocused and detached, lingered absently on a nondescript spot on the wall, perhaps a spot where something had collided with the plaster and left a mark, though it was hard to tell at this distance. 

...Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India... Juliett... What came after Juliett... L-something... Lunar? No, not Lunar, imbecile. A city. Latin-American. For God’s _sake_... 

“Pressing matter that’s keeping you up?” 

The sudden dark voice made John start, turning at the waist to see Sherlock, clad in pyjama bottoms and a grey shirt with a rather expensive looking dressing robe completing the ensemble. The genius was standing in his bedroom doorway, single eyebrow quirked at John. 

“Just can’t sleep,” John confessed, clamming up and turning away from Sherlock, straightening up so he was sitting properly and stiff-backed, not unlike a soldier at attention. 

Seemingly indifferent to John’s worries, Sherlock padded into the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets until he found his microscope, pulling it out deftly to set it up on the kitchen table. 

“You can’t sleep either?” His prodding was more out of curiosity than an innate desire to pursue conversation with the strange, brooding man that had been penetrating John’s consciousness. 

Sherlock simply made an indifferent noise like a hum, switching on the microscope and going back to the cabinets to pull out a slide storage box, flipping through the thin pieces of glass with bizarrely long fingers once he’d brought this as well to the kitchen table. But by now John had his interest piqued, leaning forward with elbows propped up on his knees, watching as Sherlock selected a slide and slipped it onto the microscope’s tray, immersing himself in whatever strange chemical study he was working on. 

“What is all that, then? Just... fancy a look at things under a microscope?” 

The calculated twists of his fingers on the many knobs and his unerring gaze through the eyepieces didn’t so much as pause at John’s question. “I’m seeking out a chemical reactant that can identify trace amounts of hemoglobin after exposure and time.” Slightly illuminated by the glow of the light from the microscope, Sherlock’s face was a stark point of brightness in the otherwise darkened flat, expression likened to marble. 

Tired of just gawking at Sherlock from the sofa, John hoisted himself up to standing before making his way to sit across from Sherlock at the table. The chair scraped against the cold floor as John sat, earning him a brief glance from Sherlock before he was ignored once again. Despite the coldness, John couldn’t help but imagine that anyone else would have been shooed away by now, and he was temporarily reminded of that afternoon... The look of shock and confusion that had shattered the usually inflexible expression of the scientist/mad man... 

“You’ve been disturbed,” the taller man muttered, breaking through John’s thoughts. “Ever since we went into the dreamscape this afternoon.” 

Well, he was pegged. No point in trying to argue the point. “Yeah.” John’s hands had found their way together, one curled over the other and resting under his chin, forearms angled in a point with his elbows on the table top. 

Even though John was staring at Sherlock, the other didn’t seem to have any intention of looking away from his microscope, continually adjusting the focus. John thought he saw Sherlock's brow twitch in something like irritation or consternation, and he even noticed his shoulders rise with an intake of breath, perhaps preparing to speak, but the other said nothing. 

Feeling a bit foolish after being read so simply without any follow-up queries or even jeers, John shifted uncomfortably in the ensuing silence before providing the explination Sherlock hadn't asked for. "It's... confounding. How real it all looked, felt, even though I knew it wasn't. How do you manage that - reconcile that in your head, without going mad?" 

"Years of exposure," came the uninterested response. 

"Fat lot of help that does me." John found his gaze focused on the table bitterly, unsure what it was about Sherlock's indifference that brought out his defenses. 

The pause before Sherlock spoke this time might have meant that the other was actually looking at John, or it might have meant the other hadn't really been listening. "I wasn't aware you were seeking assistance." 

John's expression of confusion and honest offense should have spoken for itself if Sherlock had been looking. "I'm sort of being thrown into the deep end here. I wouldn't mind some assistance." 

"You didn't have to come." John would have preffered if Sherlock had sounded defensive in return, rather than the blunt, 'isn't-it-obvious' quality with which the lanky twat was approaching this. And all this while still messing with the damned microscope. 

"You wanted me to come!" 

Finally - _finally_ \- the tall stranger tilted his head up to look John squarely in the eye, the empty ice in his gaze sapping all the fire out of John's bosom. "I assessed your usefulness and assumed you would learn quickly. Would you rather I coddle you through tutoring? Treat you like a child rather than the competent soldier standing before me?" 

Even with the surge of anger now lost, John still wasn't above putting up a fuss, his voice coming out much closer to a whine than he liked. "At least give me something! I can't trust things I see with my own eyes. My own head is... foggy. I'm a doctor, not some theorist working in the abstract." 

Regardless of the distasteful curl of lips that Sherlock wore at John's plea, his scrutiny lessened to something softer and not quite as derogatory. "It's all very concrete, John. All you need are the proper tools with which to observe." 

When John had no response, simply watching Sherlock expectantly, Sherlock gently moved his microscope aside, reaching up to an overhead lightbulb and yanking on the chain, casting the two of them in yellow light. In the same motion, Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled something out, resting it between them on the table with an oddly heavy sound considering its size. 

Still seeing spots from the sudden shift of lighting, John stared at the tiny trinket. "What is it?" 

"These," Sherlock clarified, "are rare earth magnets. Two of them." Scooping them back up again, Sherlock pulled them apart with one hand, showing that they were indeed two separate objects John has mistaken for one, due to them being magnetically attached. Two small metal spheres, together just over a few centimeters in length from end to end; their metal plating gleamed under the harsh lighting. 

Curious, John reached a hand forward for Sherlock to hand them over. 

The broad hand holding the two magnets swooped out of reach, its owner arching an eyebrow up at John when the doctor looked understandably confused. "Can't let you touch these, John. It would ruin their entire point." 

Without more than a wary crease to his brow, John relented and lowered his hand back down to the table. "How come?" 

"Only I know the precise strength and weight of these two magnets. I know exactly how they feel, together and apart. I know how much force it takes to separate them - knowledge nobody else has, having crafted these myself." As he spoke, his fingers rolled the two spheres, joined once again, causing the magnets to dance between knuckle and fingernails, weaving and spinning. "When I am in somebody else's dream, unless they themselves had held and studied these magnets, they would not be able to replicate them." 

"Sort of a... litmus test for reality," John inferred. "You'll know if you're in somebody's dream because your magnets'll be off." 

Instead of the disparaging look John had almost come to believe he deserved, he earned a small smirk from Sherlock. "I've seen a few others involved in dream manipulation use a similar trick. One man had a small spinning top that would only fall over outside the dreamscape. Elegent - I wish I'd thought of it." The mix of envy and praise that flickered in the grey-ish eyes made John smile with him, almost dejected when Sherlock slipped the magnets back in his pocket. "The key is that the item - the Totem, as it's called - must be truly unique." 

Nodding, John found himself already digging mentally through his possessions for something suitable that he could use to ground himself. "It's a bit cheating, though," John teased. "I mean, bypassing all the smoke and mirrors with two little magnets." 

Sherlock's thick brow obscured his eyes partially as he turned his eyes back to John. "It's not cheating, it's logic. Besides..." Sherlock by now was moving the microscope back in front of him on the table top, reaching up to turn the overhead lightbulb off with a _click_. "We're altering perception while people sleep. That's more than a little morally dubious, isn't it?" With the lilt to his voice as Sherlock said that, John was pretty certain that being 'morally dubious' was closer in meaning to 'fun' than 'undesirable' in this context. 

As the fierce eyes of undeterminable color had by now redirected their attention once more to the microscope, John could almost feel his perceived importance and relevence dissolving. No doubt the microscope slides now held infinitely more interesting things than the wounded army doctor could ever offer. With nothing left to provide, John soon found himself back on the old, uncomfortable sofa, succumbing to sleep after finally being able to block out Sherlok's distracted, repeated mutterings of 'Moriarty'. 

John didn't have a single dream that evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Returning readers - thanks for the patience! New people - hi! Like I said at the beginning, this is a WIP, but I do have all my chapters outlined and am still confident I will finish this. Hopefully my next update will get out before beginning of July; if it doesn't, don't expect one until I'm back from my honeymoon!
> 
> Con-crit much appreciated, and really ANY comments would be loved, even if it's just to say you like what you see and to cheer me on as I write! Feel free to follow me on Tumblr at kelseydivesin.tumblr.com.


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